William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
From the still-vexed Bermoothes. -The Tempest. Act i. Sc. 2.
From the still-vexed Bermoothes. -The Tempest. Act i. Sc. 2.
The villany you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction. -The read more
The villany you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction. -The Merchant of Venice. Act iii. Sc. 1.
But mine, and mine I loved, and mine I praised,
And mine that I was proud on--mine so much
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But mine, and mine I loved, and mine I praised,
And mine that I was proud on--mine so much
That I myself was to myself not mine,
Valuing of her--why she, O, she is fall'n
Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again,
And salt too little which may season give
To her foul tainted flesh!
Fare you well, my lord, and believe this of me: there can be no
kernel in this light nut; read more
Fare you well, my lord, and believe this of me: there can be no
kernel in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes.
Trust him not in matter of heavy consequence.
Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
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Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald me like molten lead.
True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings; Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings. -King Richard III. read more
True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings; Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings. -King Richard III. Act v. Sc. 2.
True is it that we have seen better days. -As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 7.
True is it that we have seen better days. -As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 7.
You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine. -The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 3.
You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine. -The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 3.
Fly pride, says the peacock: mistress, that you know.
Fly pride, says the peacock: mistress, that you know.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
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For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin?
